Theresa May suffered, trying to win over a group of hardcore Brexiters.
Photograph: Facundo Arrizabalaga/EPA

Things fall apart. It was a victory of sorts. But Theresa May was in no mood to celebrate seeing her Brexit withdrawal agreement being defeated by a mere 149 votes compared with 230 first time round. This was a second humiliation even she could not ignore. Rejected by all the opposition parties. Rejected by 75 of her own MPs. Rejected by herself.

Not that she didn’t try. In her statement after the defeat, the prime minister insisted her deal was still the only deal on offer. It was bordering on clinical madness. Her limitations as leader once more exposed. This was May unplugged. Unvoiced even. Her words no more than the occasional gasp.

Even when she glimpsed reality by barking out that there would be a no-deal vote the next day, she was unable to prevent herself from more self-harm by declaring she would fail to whip it. Weakness piled on weakness. The martyrdom of St Theresa. Condemned by her own hand. A kinder Tory party would put an end to her suffering right now.

Things fall apart. After her late night trip to Strasbourg, May had briefly dared to hope her revised deal might just have a chance. That lasted as long as it took for the attorney general to deliver his verdict. Many had thought that Geoffrey Cox could be persuaded to finesse his way to giving the prime minister a free pass on the legal status of the UK’s right to withdraw from the Northern Ireland backstop. Instead the country’s top lawyer turned out to be more interested in his integrity than acting in his party’s interest. It was a dangerous precedent for an attorney general.

The man with the golden voice looked haunted as he explained his decision to the Commons. Having a conscience clearly came at a price. It was like this: the previous week he had travelled to Brussels to negotiate a new deal. And it was only when he was then asked to mark his own exam paper that he realised he had actually failed.

Things fall apart. But there were failures and failures, Cox explained. His was a failure with merit. One that deserved at least a hearing to explain the magnitude of his failure. For to concentrate purely on the legal aspects of the legal status on which he had been asked to provide an opinion was a category error. Or to give it its proper title, Bollocks. What parliament had to understand was that the legal difficulties presented by the backstop were a secondary issue to the political expediency of getting a bad deal passed.

Parliament isn’t used to hearing a lawyer telling it not to bother about the law and after a brief pause – more of a reality check – dozens of MPs began openly laughing at Cox. The attorney general looked hurt. His was not a comedy, it was a tragedy; one that deepened with every intervention. Having to spell out the UK would be subject to the European court of justice in any arbitration procedure was pretty much the final straw. He exited stage left, an honourable if chastened man.

Things fall apart. Moments later, May entered the chamber, glanced up at her husband in the gallery and gave a resigned shrug. She knew the game was up already, with both the Democratic Unionist party and the European Research Group having already declared their opposition to her deal.

The Tories also looked as if they knew they were in the endgame. Though the frontbenches were padded out with a few cabinet members rounded up under duress, the backbenches were at least half empty for what was meant to be one of the most important debates in the country’s history. There’s only so much pain anyone can take.

Things fall apart. The prime minister got up to speak but all that came out was a barely audible croak. Just as at the 2017 Conservative party conference, her voice had its own narcissistic, psychosomatic breakdown. A total malfunction brought on both by stress and a limited awareness she was the architect of her own misfortune. The Maybot was now in the process of decommissioning herself. She wanted to speak, but her voice knew she had nothing to say.

It was almost too painful to watch. A prime minister with an unerring self-destructive instinct for making the wrong call, trying to win over a group of hardcore Brexiters, red-faced and blue-blazered, whose one mission appeared to be to prevent Brexit. As if it had only ever been the longing and sense of grievance that gave them meaning. In winning lay only emptiness: a sense of existential futility. Pathos and irony locked in a death spiral.

Some words did escape her lips, but few were heard. The odd loyal Tory backbencher did offer half-hearted support, but most either kept silent or stayed away. Even the Four Pot Plants covered their leaves in shame. That bad. It felt like the end of days. A government out of ideas and all but out of power.

Things fall apart. Seventeen days and counting. A government, a parliament, a country with no direction. Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything.